


The Warming Cup

by Maybethings



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Dragon Age Holiday Cheer, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-27 19:26:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybethings/pseuds/Maybethings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Satinalia is important to Leahren Tabris, but Alistair has more dubious feelings about the season. Unless, of course, she were to do something to change that a little. Part of the Dragon Age Christmas exchange on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Warming Cup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LinaLeah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinaLeah/gifts).



The thought occured to Leahren Tabris when they were preparing to leave camp. “Hey, Alistair,” she called out, “It’s almost Satinalia, isn’t it?”

“Now that you mention it…” Her fellow Warden’s face contorted as he did some mental calculations. “It’s a few days away. Why?”

A pretty flush crept across the elf’s cheeks. “Well, it’s a special day. Wouldn’t you agree? I feel like we should be doing something special.”

“Well, y-e-e-e-s,” he said, drawing out the last word, “but I don’t think the darkspawn are going to feel the same.” He paused. “It might be funny to see a hurlock in one of those poncey Orlesian hats, though. I’ll give you that much.”

“Ha!” She secured her quiver on her back, fiddling with the soft leather strap until she was satisfied. “It seems so sad to just let it pass like another day, though.”

“Right now, with all that needs doing, it might as well be.” He sighed. “Well, c’mon, let’s get moving. So many darkspawn to bash over the head and so little time to do it!”

But it was clear that Leahren was set on doing  _something_ , and she wasn’t going to let it go as easily as all that.

* * *

“Oh, what was I even thinking? He didn’t even want to discuss the subject,” she said gloomily over the fire to Zevran that night. In a low voice, of course. She didn’t particularly want the subject of the conversation to hear.

“Truly, it is another day to me…but to you, it seems very important, this feastday,” Zevran mused, one hand resting along the line of his jaw as he listened.

“It is!” she exclaimed. “Everyone’s together, or almost everyone, and there’s coin and presents and everyone in the Alienage pulls together to have a feast. It’s a good time.” A pretty flush spread across her cheeks as she recalled happier memories from earlier times. Her face fell a little. “But maybe that’s just me. Sten disapproves, but then he disapproves of most everything in Ferelden. Shale and Oghren don’t have a clue what it is. Morrigan might kill me if I bring it up wrong. Leliana’s enthusiastic, but she’s had no luck persuading Alistair on the subject either. And oh the lecture Wynne gave me when I brought it up…” She groaned, rubbing her forehead gingerly. “It’s just…not the same thing for anyone that it is for me. Nobody really wants to make a big deal out of it.”

“Yes, well.” Zevran leaned backward, lacing his hands together behind his neck with an impish grin. “What do you want to do, Warden?”

Leahren furrowed her brows, a little gleam coming into her dark eyes as she thought. “I’m going to save this holiday, whether you all like it or not.”

“Good woman. Now perhaps if you have any other tensions I might relieve you of…?”

She laughed. “No, no, nothing like that. But tell me, have you heard of something called egg cup?”

* * *

The day of Satinalia dawned bright and clear. Well, as bright and as clear as it got during the Blight, anyway. The sky was grey. The rocks were grey. The snow, stirred up and marched upon by several pairs of heavy feet, was grey. Haven was fifty shades of—oh, he didn’t really want to think about it. They just needed to get the job done, and Arl Eamon would be well again, and they could get back to actually killing more darkspawn.

That would ease his mood considerably. He wanted to bash something’s head in. Maybe a few times. Just for good measure.

He got his wish in the Chantry, merrily smashing cultists into a bloody pulp, then in the icy caves that led to the Gauntlet. By the time night rolled around, his arms felt like they were about to fall off. Or freeze. Or freeze and fall off. Leahren’s call to make camp had never sounded so welcome. He promptly inhaled his dinner, volunteered for last watch and said good night in the same breath.

His sleep was untouched by darkspawn that night; instead he dreamed of a boyhood memory, safe in the stables on a Satinalia night. With nothing else to do, he slept and woke and drifted off to sleep again, with the warmth and snoring of the mabaris his only company. From far, far away, he could hear the muffled laughter and wassailing of the Arl’s guests in the castle. Young Alistair was comfortable enough. But alone. He could almost smell the food and spices from the feast carrying on the chill wind, and his mouth watered.

Except that he really WAS smelling it with every breath, and a small, cold glob of drool was clinging to his chin. He woke and peeked out of his tent.

Leahren and the others were huddled over a small pot and earnestly discussing its contents. And the elf was stirring the pot over a little flame, laughing and talking like he’d never seen her before.

“Maybe if we added a bit more spice to it, Warden…”

“Parshaara, elf. This drink does not need your poisons added to it.”

“Or aphrodisiac. I am watching you, Zevran. Do not tempt me any further to turn you into a toad.”

“Perish the thought, my dear Morrigan…”

“Let me see..hmm. It’s not bad. Very sweet. Just a little more nutmeg, I think.”

“Sod the nutmeg! It needs more ale!”

“And are you volunteering yours?”

“Soddin’ stone, bard, NO. This is papa’s SECRET stash and you’re not gettin’ any more.”

“What is this…concoction, anyway? I don’t trust this. It’s made from something that came out of a bird’s—”

“That’s egg cup.” Alistair hadn’t set out to answer Shale’s question, but it slipped naturally from his mouth anyway. “You’re making egg cup?”

Leahren nodded rapidly, grinning with pride. “Want some? It might not be very good. But, um, everyone helped. Leliana… _acquired_  the eggs and milk. Sten and Morrigan helped with the spices. And Oghren and Zevran put in the ale! Taste it, go on. I want to see what you think.”

Alistair took the little tin mug from her hand, and let her fill it with the hot, creamy concoction and sprinkle it with more powdered spice. He sipped, carefully, feeling her eyes trained anxiously upon him. The elf needn’t have worried.

“Andraste’s shining—it’s the best I’ve ever tasted,” he exclaimed, and meant it.

“I think we’ve done things right,” Leliana giggled. “Look at the fearsome Templar’s face.”

“ _Must_  I?” All the same, Morrigan looked just a little pleased with herself. Or perhaps it was a trick of the light bouncing off the stone and ice.

“Come on, everyone, help yourself. It should at least FEEL like Satinalia tonight,” Leahren said firmly.

“So this is what it should feel like,” replied Alistair, only half-jokingly. The beverage was warm and rich and smooth, with a fiery, pleasing bite from the alcohol, and settled in his belly like a warm, purring kitten. A very tasty kitten. When the main mastermind sat beside him, grinning fit to split her face, he had to fight the very strong urge to swoop her up into his lap and cuddle her. Maybe later. Maybe after all this.

Leahren Tabris settled down beside Alistair and watched her companions tentatively sampling their creation (Oghren less tentatively than the others). The air was cold and sharp, but the light of the moon that poured down into their little grotto was almost ethereal. A little flurry of fresh snow floated down upon them from a crack in the roof. It wasn’t the Alienage, it wasn’t home, and it wasn’t anywhere remotely warm or safe or comfortable.

But she was celebrating Satinalia with family, different family, and the feeling alone was twice as warming as the egg cup.


End file.
